Survivor doesn't mean loner
by Ellana-san
Summary: Sometimes, he thinks, looking at her is like looking into the blazing sun. It leaves you blind, a little out of breath, and desperately wishing you could see past the inferno to the core within. - Missing scene from Catching Fire after the interviews and before the arena. Haymitch/Effie


_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing blablabla_

English is not my mothertongue and it's the first time I post something so long in this language, please be indulgent. I hope you will like it. This is a Catching Fire missing scene taking place just after the interviews and before Katniss and Peeta go back into the arena.

Thank you to the lovely Akachankami for the betareading. She's the one who said it was worth sharing. :)

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_**Survivor doesn't mean loner **_

He senses a presence in his room as soon as he crosses the threshold but he steps in anyway, because there is nowhere to run if they want him dead. In a way, life has become a lot like the arena. You could fight, you could hide, you _could_ try to run, he guesses, but you could never escape it. In the end, you are trapped between invisible walls and it comes down to one single question: are you a loser or a survivor? Not a winner, never a winner, but a survivor. And a survivor roams alone.

Haymitch is very much a survivor.

He wishes he weren't. He has tried and tried not to be one. First, he had drowned in alcohol in a hopeless longing for oblivion. Then, he had refused to play their game in the only way he could : by denying advices to District Twelve tributes because he didn't want to give them a false sense of hope – or maybe not to give himself a false sense of hope. He had convinced himself not to care, he had convinced himself not to become attached, and then Katniss had come and put his life upside down in this special way of her… And now, he cares. He cares for this stupid girl who's too much like him, too much a survivor, for her own good. He cares for Peeta who is entirely too loving for his own good. And he cares for…

"Haymitch," she says, just as the lights turn on and he can't help but sigh because she's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to be at home. She's supposed to be safe. Far away from all the madness. Far away from him. "Haymitch, it's not true is it?"

"You shouldn't be here, sweetheart."

He goes straight for the liquor, his eyes barely gliding on her shiny golden hair. Sometimes, he thinks, looking at her is like looking into the blazing sun. It leaves you blind, a little out of breath, and desperately wishing you could see past the inferno to the core within. In his state of anguish he finds the metaphor quite striking and he can't help but snort a little at his own pathetic life. Effie Trinket is a sun. Underneath all those wigs, fashionable clothes, bright colors, make-up and affected manners, there is a damn fine woman. But it was too late now. It had taken Katniss to wake him up to life again. Katniss… The girl on fire. The mockingjay. The girl who lights sparks and isn't even aware of it.

Haymitch is so very much aware of the sparks she lights. She made Peeta fall in love with her, and, in turn, Peeta showed Haymitch that love wasn't necessarily a weakness. Except it is. Except he can't afford this kind of liability.

Her hand closes on the neck of the bottle before his does and he looks up, surprised to find her still here.

"You stopped drinking," she reminds him and there's disapprobation in her voice.

She had been so proud when he had told her he had stopped. She had been _so_ very proud… And he had let her. He had let her remove the wine off the table, he had let her tell him again and again how he was doing the right thing, he had let her be _here_… He hasn't let anyone come this close for _so_ long. And he can't afford it. He can't afford to see her become a pawn in this war. He can't afford to see her _hurt_.

"You shouldn't be here," he says again.

He doesn't try to take the bottle back and, after a moment, she puts it down again. But she doesn't go away. She stays right there, right in front of him, so close he could touch her if he wanted to, so close he could… There is fear in her eyes, despair in her face…

She should have been evacuated with the prep team. They have all been ushered from backstage when Katniss' wedding dress had turned into a mockingjay costume. He had watched her been escorted out, a frown on her beautiful face. She doesn't really know anything about the true state of the rebellion, but she does know there is a rebellion in the making. Effie is far from stupid, despite all signs pointing to the contrary.

"I sneaked back in." she explains. Her hand twirls in the air to lessen the impact of her words, commanding the space around her like she always does. Haymitch's throat seems to close up. Did she know what she was saying? Did she know what they could do to her if they found out she wasn't where she's supposed to be? "Tell me it's not true."

"What's not true, sweetheart?"

He doesn't really know what to do. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Tomorrow, Katniss, Peeta and the others victors would be sent back into the arena and, then, the revolution would truly begin. Everything was planned to the letter. He had bargained with Plutarch for Effie's safety, a team would retrieve her right before they helped the victors out of the arena. But until then, Effie couldn't know. She just couldn't. If Snow found out, if they were suspicious of Haymitch… He didn't have a lot of friends. They would go to Effie first.

"They made us wait in the atrium. There are screens there, Haymitch. I saw Peeta's interview." Her voice trembles but does not crack. He likes that about Effie. She's a strong woman. She would be a survivor if she had to, he's sure of it. Not a winner – winners never end well. "Tell me it was your idea. Tell me it's a scheme. Tell me…" Her voice does crack at that point. "Tell me Katniss is not pregnant."

Her eyes are big and glistening and he's sure she's about to cry. Her make-up is a little smudged, her dress not quite perfectly adjusted – there must have been a fair amount of sneaking indeed – and she's far from being her usual composed self. There's no smile either, no trace of her absolutely unbearable _joie de vivre_.

He wonders if that's what she had feared all along, if that's why she was disapproving of them sharing a room.

"I can't tell it was my idea, no." he says, because he doesn't know how else to answer her question. The Capitol is everywhere, it wouldn't be a stretch to assume they are listening. "It was all Peeta."

And it was brilliant, too. He wishes he has thought of that one before. He wishes it could make a difference. He wishes, with all his heart, Katniss and Peeta didn't have to go back to that hell pit.

"But she isn't." Effie presses. "She _isn't_, right?"

She seems so desperate, Haymitch wants to reach out and hug her but he can't. He doesn't know how to do that anymore. He's broken.

"I don't know."

It's the only answer he can give. It's the only safe one, at least. Snow couldn't do much worse to Katniss and Peeta but he had to think of those who will be outside the arena before the spark takes. He has to protect her and the only way to do that is to make sure she doesn't know anything.

"_Liar_."

It's a cry and a screech all at once and it hurts, it hurts more than it should. And she's crying now, fat tears that roll down her cheeks and take out her make-up with them. And he does reach out, he puts his hand on her arm and he wants her pain to stop, he wants to help and comfort and _love_ but he knows he can't, he knows it's too dangerous… _He knows_, but it doesn't stop him from holding her. She struggles a little when he hugs her but she stops resisting soon enough and he feels her hands coming to rest uncertainly on his shoulders. She seems small pressed against him, fragile. _A china doll_. He's never been one for china dolls. He has never seen the appeal before her.

"Why don't you trust me?"

It's a whisper or a plea, he's not entirely quite sure. Her head is on his shoulder, he tries to kiss her forehead, to soothe her, but her enormous artificial tangle of hair is in the way and he hates it, all of a sudden. He hates it just as much as he loves it because those ridiculous wigs are a part of Effie Trinket and he also loves her for her unrepentant vain self. But not tonight. Tonight he wants to see the heart at the center of the sun, he wants to see past the blaze… He's too close already, a little closer won't make much of a difference. He blindly feels around for the clips and removes them one after the other. She doesn't try to stop him, she doesn't ask what he is doing, she leans against him and lets him. She shouldn't. _He_ shouldn't. He could break her and hurt her and he doesn't see an outcome where this thing ends well for either of them but, even that, doesn't stop him from removing the wig.

He lets it fall and crumbles in a shapeless heap of golden curls, too bright against the cold glint of the white tiles. She barely moves her head to watch it fall. She has blond hair, not golden like her wig but more of a fair kind of yellow, it's cropped short but the locks still coil a little at the ends. He likes it. He strokes the strands and they're soft and smell faintly of flowers. It clashes with the heavy flagrance of her perfume. He likes the flowers better.

"Blond suits you, sweetheart."

His voice is rough. He feels weird, but it's a good kind of weird. She turns her head, presses her cheeks against his shoulder and all he would take for him to kiss her is just a few inches to the right. The hand he has left on her waist twitches and she holds him a little tighter as if she's afraid he will try and run. He's not sure he won't. But there's nowhere to run to. There's _never_ anywhere to run to. Life, he has come to understand, is just like another arena : there's only here and now.

"It's considered bad form to do that without asking first, you know." she scolds him. "You should have asked first."

He snorts because, really, they're a little past the stage where he asks before taking off a wig. She had seen him threw up a billion times because he was too drunk to care, she had seen him pass out from alcohol poisoning, she had stood more than once at his door when the nightmares were too much and he woke up screaming like he was possessed, she had hold his hand tight before they all went on stage at the Quarter Quell reaping… She is always _here_, even when she isn't. Her image is seared upon his heart like her personal cattle brand. She is a constant presence in his heart, in his mind, and…

"I don't hear you complaining," he mocks her because he doesn't know what else to do. _He doesn't know what to do_. He wants to kiss her, he wants to hold her and to never let go. He wants… She makes him want so much it frightens him. He can't have any of it. He can't have the normal life and the picket fences and the kids and the goats… Normal life in District Twelve is lost to him. He's a survivor. He lives in the victors village which is nothing more than an empty graveyard.

"Bad form," she insists, in a tired whisper.

"Okay. Next time I will ask before taking off your wig," he agrees, hoping to hell there will be a next time while knowing there probably won't. If they both survive what's coming, she will be furious with him. If one of them doesn't… He doesn't want to think about that.

"I'm not talking about the wig," There's something odd in her voice but he can't see her face properly. He closes his eyes and presses his cheeks against her forehead and, for the first time in forever, he prays. He prays for time to stop. He prays for her embrace to never end. He prays, in short, for a miracle.

"What are you talking about, then? I can never tell with you." It's always about some rule or other. Something you shouldn't do in polite society or something you definitely should do… He doesn't have any manners, she had informed him of that enough times.

"You're supposed to ask before you make a woman fall in love with you." She speaks those words so softly he's not sure he heard them right. "Bad form."

The silence stretches and he can feel her tense in his arms but he's too petrified to move. There has been love, once, a long time ago… Love had been young then, with long black hair and dark blue eyes. It was before someone called out his name on reaping day and drop him in hell. It was before he had become a killer. It was before he had become a survivor. He doesn't know how to deal with love now. He keeps his feelings at bay, more or less successfully, but they are _his_. Who could love a broken man like him? Katniss and Peeta are exceptions, they understand him on a level only another victor could. They're the same as he is. But someone else? Someone untainted by the arena?

And yet…

And yet, here she is, not so much an angel, not entirely a china doll, after all… She clears her throat and lets her hands fall and, suddenly, he's the only one holding on and the situation which was already all kinds of awkward threatens to become all the more so.

He should let go. He should let her leave thinking he doesn't reciprocate her feelings. He should let her go because he will only be bad for her. He has nothing to give and he will take everything.

He should.

But he can't.

She's blushing, clearly mortified, but she's still looking straight at him, challenging him to make fun of her for her confession. Without her wig, she looks naked, more human than he has ever seen her.

"Bad form, then." he says. "You know me, sweetheart, I never do the right thing…"

She frowns. She's searching for something on his face and he hopes she finds it because he can't say it back, he doesn't know how. She must see it in the end, the thing he does a poor job at concealing, because she raises her hand and her fingertips tentatively brush against his brow, trace the curve of his nose, stop on his lips…

"You always do the right thing, when it counts," she says. "You're just unorthodox about it."

He's not even sure what unorthodox actually _means_. He's not sure what they're talking about, either, come to think of that.

He presses his lips against her fingers, catches her hand in his and tilt his head a little to watch her more closely.

"I'm not the kind of man who asks permission before he kisses a woman," he warns her. "I'm not your Capitol playboy. I'm not a knight in shining armor either and I won't…"

"I'm not a damsel in distress." she snaps, without letting him finish what was actually going to be a nice speech about the promises he isn't going to make. "I can do my own rescuing, thank you very much."

She's all frowning and angry-faced now, just like he loves her best. There's a reason he spends his time trying to annoy her… When she looks like that, fuming and frustrated and with this particular glint in her eyes that screams that she would like nothing more than to strangle him, he just… wants to ravish her right here, right now.

"I can't believe I'm in love with _you _!" she bursts. "You're… You're _uncivilized_!"

He lifts an eyebrow and he puts a hand on his heart jokingly.

"You're wounding me, sweetheart," he laughs. "But if you want uncivilized…"

Given her little yelp, she probably wasn't prepared to be thrown upon his shoulder like one of Peeta's bag of flour. Their training for the Quell had presented the undeniable advantage of putting him back into a physical shape he didn't ever expected to reach again. His knee hurts a little but, just to see Effie's face when he casually let her fall on his bed, it is worth it.

For a minute, as he towers over her, he's scared. His mind flashes back to the arena and to the people he killed, to Maysilee and her blond hair, to what happened after the victory that didn't taste at all like a victory. Effie doesn't look scared, there's a knowing look in her eyes. Pain, too. She holds out her hand and he takes it, but he doesn't lie with her, he doesn't kiss her, he stays right where he is, at the foot of the bed.

"The last time I loved someone, they killed her." He hears the words, he knows they come from his mouth, but he has no power on them. "They killed them all. It's not you I don't trust."

His throat hurts and his eyes feel a little teary and he will be damn if he cries in front of her. He will be damn if he cries at all. He's not a boy anymore.

"I know" she says. "It's alright."

"I don't want to love you." He can't look at her, he doesn't want to see the hurt in her eyes or the pain of rejection on her face. "If they do it again, it will break me."

He shouldn't say that, they could be listening. He could be giving them the weapons to finish him, right now. But what's the point? If they're really listening they know. It's too late now. It's too late and he has to convince himself that everything will be alright. They have planned everything and it will be alright. _Effie_ will be alright, Plutarch had promised they could take her with them.

"You don't have to love me."

He can't help but smile, then, because no other woman would have made that kind of offer. There is only one Effie Trinket and she is beautiful and she could have been his, in another life, but in this one…

She's sitting on the bed now and she pulls on his hand until he's sitting too, beside her. It's a bad idea. Everything is a bad idea.

"Nothing will happen to me." She is confident as only a citizen of the Capitol can be, but Haymitch is from District Twelve and he knows more than anyone else how frail a life can be. "I am a big girl, you know, I _can_ take care of myself."

"No you can't." His answer is nothing but a distressed whisper. "Not against them. You don't know…"

She cuts him off.

"Of course, I know." Her face is hard, there are worried lines at the corners of her eyes, and he wants nothing more than to see her smile and laugh again. "Everyone with half a brain knows what's happening out there. Not the particular details, of course, we can't know that. But it's coming. It's coming, isn't it? "

He can't do anything but nod.

He has thought she couldn't surprise him more tonight but she is clearly determined to do just that. She lifts her chin and he would believe her to be resolved if it weren't for the hint of fear in her eyes.

"Well then." she says "We can worry about that when it's here. We should make the most of the time we have left. Look at Katniss and Peeta…"

Once again, her voice breaks in sadness. She loves them, the kids – not so much kids, now, he guesses. Does she know that it's all for the show? Probably. Maybe she knows, like him, what Katniss hasn't understood yet. It hurts a little to know he lied to her. He promised Katniss to save Peeta at all costs, he promised Peeta to save Katniss at all costs… He will try to save them both but if it comes down to a choice… She's the mockingjay. And she's her favorite, because they're alike. When he looks at her, he sees himself.

"I've found them allies" he says because it's the only thing he can say to reassure her without giving out the whole game. "Good ones."

Ones who wouldn't stab them in the back.

"Good." She let out a sigh. "They will make it. They have to."

"One of them you mean?" he asks, puzzled.

She doesn't say anything for the longest time, she just looks at him like she knows something he doesn't. And maybe she does. It's hard to say who is a part of the rebellion and who isn't, but Effie… He has worked so hard to protect her, to make sure she emerged out of this unscathed…

"Haymitch, I'm not the kind of girl who asks permission before she kisses a man." she says, then, and she's serious too.

She's kissing him before he can even tell her that it isn't a good idea, that he will break her heart and make her unhappy and probably will be her undoing in the end… She kisses him and his wish is granted : time stops. Just like that, time stops. The Earth stops turning. The world stops moving. The universe is holding its breath. And it's painfully beautiful.

He kisses her right back because there is no stopping now. There is only skin on skin and lips and moans and promises of no love and for the first time in a long time Haymitch is not afraid of lying on his bed, in the dark, because no monsters can go after him tonight. He's not the knight in shining armor, she is. She's a knight made of colors, and happiness and love.

Afterwards, as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks of what's coming tomorrow and he's not as scared as he was. He resolves to keep Effie as close to him as he can until the rebels break the victors out of the arena, he can keep her safe, he _will_ keep her safe.

He's dimly aware that somewhere, on the same floor as them, Katniss and Peeta are waiting for the sunrise, tangled up in the sheets like him and Effie are. He hopes they are. He hopes Katniss realizes before it's too late: being survivors doesn't have to mean being loners.


End file.
